| something for bruvvers |
Uncommon Morning PoHello... How are you/?/? Are you really alright?Uncommon Morning Po
how is da day, brotha george? How is the night, Sister Clare?
farbanks, I'll ask her. Neartanks, she'll say no for sure... I don't know...but I do...she'll say may. Be.
Think of me frondly. Someone's stealing time from T-e-e, its I'm O Gene Heaps of latterday love.
Sometimes a bun is far better than a tall tale Pony and sometimes two buns are better than one
Libraries are pickup girl places for calm quiet shy libertarian confused politically Boys a
Monk's Geese in FlurryA wind tail dove does the wilder above in a rumbling abode which is unmatch in load, color, texture, dime, or else wine. Where does the flap underneath minor hatches of finer-de-liners whore thoughts art unclutched by forests of rhyme and in thymely tries? Do bunting brothers underlie joysongs of gradients and HeathBarrettes, the ladies of nights? Just in trebles' crowcalls do the minors stroll, mixing songs (throngs, trines, bongs, V-lines). Hari-est prances of the triplest tops do undo my romances of the snowiest hops from hare through wares, unknowing the flower, true envy and graces are mildest of powers. PraMonk's Geese in Flurry
ThoughtsWhat is a man who doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks of him? Not a stranger, not a chance encounter, not an acquaintance, a friend, or even a lover. No one. What is he? Is he mad, to choose live outside the omnipresent social netting that is the life-breath of all others? What if he has no choice? What if he cannot see it, or make sense of it? What then? Where is his place in the world? What is his sentence, for the sins of his immutable inability; that void in his soul that the others fill with the fruits of human interaction? Will he live in sorrow and loneliness, daily searching for that which would make him whole? Must he? Or wilThoughts
A crux it is, ma'am.Notwithstanding the noncommital Utterances of vagaristic Associations which may or may Not find themselves the unnecessary Culprits of varied acts of dubious Existential significanceA crux it is, ma'am.
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Testing fatalistic Earthquakings against Rectifiable moonscrapings, Rending the guilts of Adam's accidental stomping ground, Nascent wastelandicisms Inch empirically toward Grandiose oblivions, unconscionably Marvelling at their Auto-Alighierical descent.
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Pointillistic practitioners take Umbrage at the over-archin
Giving Thanks...
Love
Thank you sincerely for the
Forgive me for my late answer.
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Szellőrózsa*Apophysis
...my mom wants to pay you to give my brother "piano lessons"...btw.
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Convince Buster he could aviate
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soup's up :: sound off :: imagine
this link better work.
[link]
holy shit bro
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